


Early to Rise: 12:01

by icedteainthebag



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder finally wakes up about six hours later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early to Rise: 12:01

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously a sequel to "Early to Rise." Drunken Frohike strikes again. People have asked me to add a "NSFW" warning to these stories as it applies, so I do so now: NOT SAFE FOR WORK. :) Thanks to Amy for the MMPRPG insights and general fun putting that scene together. Thanks to C.D. for answering my "odd" question about "what it feels like."

Fox Mulder wakes up to the sun glaring in midday glory through   
his venetian blinds and searchingly slaps the bed once, twice,   
three times, but all that's there is the soft impression she left   
in the mattress and her faint scent pressed into the sheets.

He hears his faucet dripping (she'd told him twice this week to   
fix it or get it fixed, but it's been dripping for the better   
part of a year and he doesn't have good luck with fixing sinks   
and the super still grudgingly ignores his maintenance requests   
after the unfortunate waterbed incident). Nothing else: no Scully   
showering, no Scully cooking, no Scully watching AMC. He wonders   
if she is even there; in his estimation, it's been approximately   
five hours and forty-nine minutes since she told him "Six hours,   
your place," which made him want to sleep because sleeping passes   
time more quickly than sitting around waiting. (He was never good   
at sitting around waiting.)

Scully was always an early riser, despite his best attempts at   
getting her to stay in bed with him (because there was no   
shortage of things to get accomplished on a Saturday morning,   
like perusing the farmer's market, cleaning his abysmal vortex of   
an apartment, taking a jog together that always happened to   
finish at the coffee shop around the corner where she would   
emerge with a bag of scones in one hand and a venti soy cafe   
latte in the other, and he really didn't like scones at all, and   
he wasn't even going to go there about the soy milk). She'd never   
considered sex or any variant of the activity to be as important   
as these tasks, never important enough to stay under the sheets   
and let him play with her for a little while.

Except for earlier this morning.

So now he wonders if she's gone on a Saturday morning journey,   
picking up organic tomatoes for a spaghetti sauce or cucumbers   
for her salad, and if she will arrive in time for 12:01 p.m.,   
which is exactly six hours from the point at which she said he   
would have his turn at maybe a little something. Six hours, six   
hours, and it has now been five hours and fifty-two minutes.

(He's never denied having an obsessive streak.)

Mulder slides out of bed, slightly put-off by the taste in his   
mouth. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands (with her knock-  
off Warm Vanilla Sugar hand soap, never antibacterial hand soap,   
as the employees at Bath & Body Works heard the day Scully   
rejected their wares by firmly placing a bottle on the counter   
and telling the clerk that it was medically irresponsible of them   
to sell products with triclosan due to increased bacterial   
resistance to antibiotics, like it was bringing on the dawn of   
the apocalypse, if only it were that simple). He brushes his   
teeth (with his own toothpaste, which he clings to as the one   
thing she cannot change about his hygienic habits--paste, not   
gel, paste).

He walks into his living room (his, theirs, well it was still his   
most of the time) and Scully's lying on his couch on her stomach   
with her nose buried in her laptop. She's wearing her gold-rimmed   
reading glasses (those glasses...) and her hair is damp and   
slightly longer when wet, with a little wave to it that almost   
reaches her shoulders. Wet-haired Scully alone does it for him,   
but then he sees she's wearing blue cotton boyshorts that   
accentuate that little tuck of her bottom at the top of her   
thighs along with a white tank top (a style garishly referred to   
on the street as a "wife-beater") that is probably a little too   
tight for her own good.

And he is breathing pretty heavily even before she lifts her eyes   
to acknowledge his presence (though his eyes haven't left the   
gentle swell of her ass). "I was fairly convinced you'd turned   
nocturnal on me, Mulder."

He glances at the clock on his desk. Five hours and fifty-seven   
minutes. Four minutes left. He wonders if she knows, if she's got   
a plan, and his mind spirals around all the plans she could   
possibly have. There's all the contorted positions her body was   
capable of that he'd merely fantasized about so many times until   
that night when everything changed, and he realized his new   
favorite view of her was something she called "backward cowgirl   
style," seeing her glistening back and the roll of her hips while   
he lays on his back and watches her ride him. Yeah, Scully, that   
Scully, hot and wet for him and then she whispers the sexiest   
four-letter words he's ever heard her say.

Or, alternately, she could now send him into a death spiral of   
senseless unresolved sexual tension yet again (they'd done that   
too, far too many times). And then he realizes he's standing in   
the living room and she might be awaiting some sort of verbal   
response to her critique of his lethargy. "I was pretty tired.   
Did you go to the market?"

"Nah," she says, her eyes on the screen.

"Coffee shop?"

"Nah." She kicks her feet up a little bit, flexing her muscles,   
and oh, she knows he's watching. He smirks and feels a rush of   
blood to his groin. Dana Scully playing her games, her little   
maddening games. He wanders over, standing next to the couch, and   
turns to look at the computer screen. He bends down to run his   
fingers up her bottom and over her spine. A mutual shiver passes   
between them.

"What are you doing?" He thinks it looks like some sort of game,   
but the Scully he knows doesn't do computer games.

"Well, while you were sleeping, I just so happened to twink out   
my Paladin."

"Didn't I just do that for you earlier?"

She rolls her eyes. "Hold on Mulder...I'm pulling for my guild."

(Didn't she just do that for him earlier?)

"Scully, have you body-swapped with Langly? And if so, please   
tell me it happened after I got you off this morning." Mulder's   
fingers play over her bottom again, tracing circles.

"Langly tricked out my laptop last week so I could play EverQuest   
on the road, but to answer your question, no. It's still me in   
here," she says.

Scully the gamer. For some reason that drives him crazy in a way   
he'd never admit to anyone (not even her).

"And this is what you do for fun." Circle, circle, circle. The   
warm skin beneath that blue cotton is driving him more than a   
little crazy.

"It's not the only thing I do for fun." Her eyes are locked on   
the screen but her fingers trickle down the front of his boxers,   
back up again, lazily teasing him. He sucks in a deep breath at   
the tingle that shoots down his legs. The clock: five hours and   
fifty-nine minutes.

Damn you Scully, he thinks, and your aptitude for punctuality.   
He's transfixed with her ass, that cotton hugging her tight   
curves and he just wants to trail his tongue right along the edge   
of that fabric and make her arch her back and moan (addicted:   
they should have an anonymous group for Scully moan addiction but   
he'd better be the only one in attendance or he'd go apeshit).

"There," she says, snapping her laptop shut. "The guild is safe,   
for now."

"Great," Mulder says. "I was seriously concerned about your   
guild."

"You'd better be," she answers, sitting up to face him. He   
glances down, repressing a groan when he sees her nipples   
pressing out against the thin fabric of her tank top. She turns   
her head, looks at the clock, and then looks up at him with   
steely resolve that takes what little breath he has away (those   
glasses and those blue eyes behind them).

"It's 12:01," she says.

"Lunch?" He can't help shaking like a leaf.

"Maybe." Scully reaches around him with both hands and grabs his   
ass, pulling his hips inches closer to her face. She cocks an   
eyebrow at him (cocks is the operative word here).

"Oh, Jesus." (Oh JesusohJesusohWhoever...)

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and yanks   
them down. He gasps at the slight twinge of pain as they catch on   
his erection before they fall to his ankles. She immediately   
slides her palm up the length of him. "Oh, Mulder, you've really   
outdone yourself this time."

She grips him, tugs at him and starts to remove her glasses with   
the other hand and he catches her wrist (not so fast, Dr.   
Scully). "Leave them on."

The sound he hears from Scully is somewhat like a satisfied purr   
from the back of her throat and he watches her smile. She watches   
him watching her as she drags the flat of her tongue up the   
bottom of his shaft. He feels himself grow harder (possible? not   
really sure) and he shifts on his feet, bites his lower lip.

And then her fingers dig into his ass and she slides him into her   
mouth slowly, hot and silky wet around him. He pushes his hips   
forward (he can't help it, he doesn't want to be forceful but she   
is obliterating any self-control he has left with her rough   
twirling tongue and her smooth, hard fingernails digging into his   
muscles) and she moans against him as he slides his hand over her   
damp hair (everything about this is so goddamned wet).

She sucks and rolls her tongue around him, sending little sparks   
straight down to his toes. He closes his eyes and his head rolls   
back a little at the pure and forbidden joy of having his   
faithful and loyal FBI partner suck him off.

Scully pulls away with hot breath against his hardness. "Do you   
remember the first time I did this to you?" she murmurs with a   
flick of her tongue against the head of his cock.

Mulder has to persuade the thinking part of his brain to wake   
back up, that part that remembers things beyond the past thirty   
seconds of hot. "Um...Yeah, I do. Marin County."

"That whole voodoo-doll thing," Scully says, flicking again. He   
shudders. "You know, Mulder...we get turned on by really odd   
things."

"Mmmm, Scully..." She takes him in her mouth again and he winces   
at the sensation, his lower back tightening as he leans forward   
just a little more. "I think we get turned on despite really odd   
things...not by...God!"

She nearly chokes on him as she laughs with his cock deep in her   
mouth. He groans in disappointment as she moves away again,   
grinning at him (what she does to him). "Not by God, huh?"

"Scully...you tease me much more and I'm going to have a hit put   
on your Paladin."

Scully gasps, her mouth agape, her lips full and red. Her look   
turns serious. "I'd better stop teasing then."

(He knows he's asking for trouble, but what's life without a   
little bit of trouble anyway?)

And he looks down into her gaze as she slides him in and out of   
her mouth, a little more intent on her mission now. Mulder can   
see what she wants, the same thing he wants--a desperate and   
frantic culmination, to complete him as fully as he completed   
her. Her tongue works harder, tracing and tickling, pressing and   
rolling and his toes curl into the carpet. She pulls away with a   
wet suck on the head of his cock and he silently curses nobody in   
particular.

"You wanna come in my mouth, Mulder?" It's a breathy sibling to a   
moan, more of a statement than a question. A strangled groan   
strains his throat (his throat honestly hurts) and she sucks him   
harder. An aching build grows deep inside of him, shooting little   
spindly branches up his torso and back.

"Scully." It's all he can manage (because of course he wants to   
come in her mouth, seriously) and he knows she is enjoying having   
him completely under her control, like her own little sex drone,   
except there's a small and increasingly vocal part of him that   
speaks up in the back of his mind, and he decides to listen to   
that part that is full of ideas normally unspeakable.

Her satisfied gaze turns confused like the flick of a switch as   
he grabs her under her arms and pushes her away, pressing her   
back against the couch.

"Turn around," he hisses at her through clenched teeth. Scully   
stares at him for a split second until realization hits her--he   
sees it flush over her face in a heated blush. She's holding the   
back of the couch with her back turned to him quicker than he can   
kick off his boxers. She glances over her shoulder and whimpers   
as he tugs down her frustrating yet sexy boyshorts (it's time to   
get them off and get them off now).

They're around her knees but it works as he presses his legs   
between her thighs, slipping his arm around her hips to support   
her as his cock slides against her flesh, wet and so very,   
very...(speechless. Even his mind is speechless.)

Mulder thrusts deeply inside of her and she lifts off the couch a   
bit with a groan (such a difference in height but they've made it   
work before and he is sure as hell making it work now). He pushes   
her up against the wall over the couch and holds her and can't   
stop sliding in and out of her, slowly at first (trying to be   
careful she doesn't hit the wall too hard).

"Mulder," she moans, and then moans it with every other thrust,   
and then he can tell she loses count because her Mulders stop   
matching up and she starts mumbling some sort of mantra full of   
references to God and Jesus and Mulder, three words that don't   
belong together in a normal conversation but seem appropriately   
fitting as he grinds his hips into hers.

"That good, Scully?" He pounds into her harder, thinking of   
making her come in his bed, thinking of her coming around him.   
That silky, heated flesh surrounding him over and over again.   
"Oh, I'm going to come in you...so...fucking...hard."

Scully sags against him, panting. That, and the smell of her   
skin, and the sound of his hips hitting hers is all he needs to   
go, let go, just let it all out, and he pushes his chest against   
her back and presses his hand against the wall as he comes (and   
holds back the world's loudest victory shout, settling instead   
for a groan of her name as those delicious sparks flow through   
his body).

They breathe, and he knows they were breathing before but now the   
oxygen is actually reaching his aching lungs. His skin feels   
melded to hers and he pulls her back to rest on his thighs,   
carefully balancing on the couch. Falling off is not an option.

"That." Scully breathes out slowly. "Was good."

"Better than EverQuest?" He presses his lips against the top of   
her head.

"Are you kidding me?" She seems perfectly happy sitting in his   
lap and he feels himself softening inside of her, his head still   
spinning.

"Hey, you know. Yeah. Sometimes I just have to know where I   
stand."

"Hmm. Well now you should know." Her head rolls back against his   
shoulder.

"You gonna make me breakfast, Scully?" He moves his hands up her   
tank top to cup her breasts and she moans softly.

"Mulder, it's..." She turns her head to check the clock. "It's   
12:20."

"You gonna make me lunch, Scully?" He squeezes her breasts, her   
hard nipples under his palms (just a little sandwich because he's   
hungry as hell).

"I knew it. I let you fuck me on the couch and now I'm your   
domestic servant."

"Scully, it has nothing to do with the couch."

Scully turns to face him, her eyes squinted, lips pursed, but   
she's playful in her mock anger. "I'm going to shower, and you're   
going to have lunch made when I get out."

"You already showered."

"You made me all dirty again." She rolls off and leaves him on   
his knees on the couch. He watches her pull her panties up and   
snap them resoundingly against her ass.

Mulder sighs and slides off the couch, picking up his boxers (and   
cleaning himself up the best he could) before heading to the   
kitchen counter to make matching turkey and tomato sandwiches on   
her (dry as hell) whole grain bread.


End file.
